No Business But Their Own
by Ieyre
Summary: If Isobel Crawley were certain of one thing, it was that they could no longer be left to their own devices. Knowing her, she won't keep her mouth shut about it for long, either. CHAPTER 7: Matthew and Mary tell eachother. MERRY CHRISTMAS!
1. Mary Sort Of Tells Isobel

The eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Grantham was one of two who took tea with her the afternoon, and for the first time since Matthew had stood again his mother felt as though the universe were smiling down on her.

At the very least, it was giving her an opening.

"Mary, dear—I wondered if I might have a word," her eyebrows raised at Edith, significantly, and a younger sister used to being thrown over in favor of the eldest took the hint. "In private."

A small pang of alarm went off in Mary's head. It was a dangerously familiar sensation, she could not count the number of times she'd felt it during the war…had something happened to him? Was he alright—was he happy?

"_We could never be happy now, don't you see?"_

No, she thought, beating the painful remembrance back down—he had said _we_. _He still has a chance at it, if he would only let himself have it. _

"Of course, Cousin Isobel." She led Matthew's mother into the library, trying not to think about.

They both settled into the comfortable space—it was her father's favorite room in the house for a reason, and Mary could imagine someone else occupying it, many years—but no. She wouldn't think of that now. An awkward silence hung in the air as she waited for Isobel to speak. Apprehension tugged at her like so many niggling doubts, and she wondered if it was her turn to chat, to paste on a false smile and simper about the weather and the size of this season's roses—

"I know you're very busy planning your wedding, and I don't mean to burden you, only—" as the woman across from her hesitated, Mary held her breath, unconsciously.

"What is it?"

"It's…Matthew."

She exhaled.

"What of him?" Even to Mary's own ears the words sounded cold and unfeeling. "Is he…he is quite alright, isn't he?" She looked away from the older woman, to the fireplace, to the rug—to anywhere. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say…how could he be, really?"

Isobel did not reply for a moment, instead allowing herself to take in Mary, the very beautiful and profoundly unhappy young woman sitting before her.

She wondered how it had come to this.

"Lavinia's death was a terrible blow, of course. But I can't help feeling," again, her speech halted, and Mary braced herself for the inevitable impact. "That he is carrying around some…other burden."

It was softer, gentler than she'd imagined. Not a direct accusation—and so she could escape it, and would, though at this point she was beginning to wonder why she even tried to conceal when it was so apparent everybody already _knew_.

"If he is, I am very sorry for it," Mary snapped, trying with little subtlety to drive the tête-à-tête into the ground. Whenever he was mentioned, whenever she heard his name she felt an ember somewhere deep within her breast glow, and she was determined to snuff it out before it burned her again. "But I don't really see what _I_ have to do with it."

If her frigidness was meant to rebuff Isobel Crawley, Mary had underestimated the other woman's resolve.

"You'll forgive me, Mary, when I tell you that I don't believe you." The ember flickered. "Actions speak louder than words, yours not excepting. I know you care very much for Matthew—much more than you are willing, have _ever_ been willing to say."

"Whatever I do or say, Cousin Isobel, it doesn't seem to make a difference—not to him or anyone else." She couldn't help but let the bitterness creep into her voice as she rose from her chair and walked to the window to survey an estate that would never be hers. "I've made my bed, and I must lie in it, just as everyone must."

Isobel stood up, as though she were going to the door, to let the whole thing drop. She had almost made it before a nagging thought made her hesitate and turn around again.

"Before I go, Mary, satisfy my curiosity on one point—" she pulled a small object out of her pocket, something small and dirty and covered with brown cloth. It would be placidly innocuous to anyone but the other woman in the room. "—Is this yours?"

Mary stared at it for a long moment. It was her dog, her lucky charm, sitting in the palm of Matthew's mother's hand—_still his after all this time_—and when she looked up from it into the other woman's kind eyes _so like his_ her resolve to remain stoic and strong collapsed like a castle of cards. She was crying, not prettily, not delicately into soft, white hands, but great ugly sobs—and Isobel was holding her, with real warmth, as a mother would.

"It's alright, my dear, it's alright." She tightened her hold and Mary felt like a lost child, newly home. Perhaps she was home for the first time in her life.

"No, it isn't…nothing will ever be right again…" She wanted to scream into Isobel's shoulder, to do anything to excise this dull ache that was tearing at her, slowly ripping her soul in two. "It's like he said. We're cursed."

Isobel broke the embrace to look at her, torn between shock and dismay.

"Who said that? Matthew?"

She nodded.

"Why on earth would he say such a thing?"

"He thinks that he and I killed Lavinia," she replied, laughing almost hysterically through her tears. She was tired of holding the secret inside of her—of cleaving tightly to Pamuk, her love, the dance, the kiss, what had been said at the funeral, to all of the things that her soul had bottled up and distilled into a poison, the pain of which brought no relief. There would not be the oblivion of death in marriage to Richard, only years of the dull ache of inward bleeding.

She needed to tell someone—the weight of it all was crushing her.

"Lavinia died of the Spanish flu, Mary," Isobel asserted, disbelieving. "I don't see how you or Matthew could've possibly—"

"She saw us kiss…right before she died. He thinks that the shock of it…that…that…"

Though Mary struggled to say it, Isobel understood—for she understood her son, sometimes too well, to not guess what she meant. Matthew's erratic moods, avoidance of the Big House—the way he never met her eyes whenever Mary or her wedding to Sir Richard were mentioned—everything came into sharp focus.

What she'd said to Cousin Violet on that summer's day in 1914 came back with striking clarity.

"Tell me what happened, dear," she prodded, gently, leading Mary back to the small loveseat.

"Apparently Granny told Matthew that he ought to marry me, only…he felt honor-bound to Lavinia, of course, but…" she trailed off, uncertain.

"But…?"

"It's stupid, really, for me to think…he never even said it."

Poor Matthew…Lady Mary Crawley was not the sort of woman one got over with any ease, and now it was obvious he was as helplessly in love with her as ever. As for Mary…if the way she'd so selflessly nursed her wasn't proof enough of her devotion, the utterly heartbroken woman in front of her was.

_Poor Mary, too._

"I rather think if he didn't love you, you both wouldn't be so miserable."

"I can't think why we do it," she laughed, in spite of her soggy handkerchief. "We make each other _wretched_."

The older woman held up the little dog. "You know, I found this in Matthew's dressing drawer a few months ago. When I suggested it be given to the village children he acted as though I had suggested giving away a Bruegal. I should have guessed it was from you." Isobel examined the little bedraggled creature in her hand with more interest. "When did you give it to him?"

"When he first came back to Downton. I suppose it was rather selfish of me, wanting him to carry around a piece of myself." She dabbed at her eyes, and Isobel could see how weary Mary was, how obviously exhausting she found putting on this façade for the world.

"I don't think selfishness is something anyone would accuse you of, Mary. Your family loves you very much, they want to help you—"

"There's nothing and no one who can help me now," Mary said quickly, with the instinct of someone resolved to her fate. She rose and bowed her head, always the consummate hostess. Just like that, the mask had returned and she was walking to the door. "Thank you for your concern, and for listening to my troubles, but really…nothing has changed."

"You can't mean that, Mary."

"I must get back to preparing for the wedding."

Banally devastated, that was what she sounded like—and as she walked away with the bleak finality of a man walking to the gallows, Isobel felt her courage and the desire the protect her, to understand her, rise.

"…Are you in some sort of trouble?" she blurted out, unthinking. It was the first thing that had come to mind, it had the queer ring of truth to it.

Mary's step faltered.

"Of course not."

Isobel Crawley was not a woman famed for her subtlety, but she could spot a lie, especially when it was as obvious as Mary's. The girl was in trouble, and, never being one to step back and let things happen, she knew exactly what she would do. She may have been accused of being a meddler more than once in her life, but there was a time and place for it, the same as everything else, and this was that time.

Luckily, she knew of at least one other person who was of the exact same mind.

**Christmas is just one week away, people…and so my goal is to post my rather silly effort before the special and subsequent AU-ness that will ensue. This story was inspired by just how utterly obsessed everyone in-universe is with Mary and Matthew…I thought it would be fun to test just how far the ridiculous meddling could go. Be warned: this isn't meant to be taken too seriously, and people might have hysterical outbursts. Whatever it takes to get M/M together. **


	2. Isobel Tells Violet Who Already Knows

The Dowager House was very comfortable, almost cozy by aristocratic standards—which was, of course, why visiting it had always seemed like a contradiction in terms. The juxtaposition in Isobel's mind of this house and its soul occupant was surreal.

This was not a mere social call, though. This was a matter of life or death, as far as Mrs. Crawley was concerned, and as she stared up at the brick façade—more modest than Downton by far, and yet more foreboding as well—she found herself actually looking forward to what would undoubtedly prove to be, at the very least, an engaging encounter.

"We have not always seen eye-to-eye, I know—but I'm not too proud to admit that I need your help."

"What an extraordinary way to begin a conversation."

Violet Crawley was (with the possible exception of Carson) the biggest snob in a household hardly bereft of them. Though her imperial and manner had always grated on Isobel's nerves, it was in a moment such as this that she could see the point of it.

"But I assume you're not so put off you don't want to hear me out."

The Dowager Countess of Grantham fixed Isobel with a look, one equally superior and perturbed.

"I flatter myself that I am made of stronger stuff than _that_."

"Then I will come straight to the point," she replied, briskly and businesslike. "Mary's wedding to Sir Richard Carlisle must not go on."

"Of course it must not," Violet said, as if this was the most commonplace of facts and the other woman was a simpleton for saying it. "The trick will be stopping it with as little damage possible. I wonder how you'd propose to pull it off?"

At this completely practical and matter-of-fact consideration, Isobel found herself momentarily baffled.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What else am I to say? I am in complete agreement with you." Taking a well-bred sip from a cup of tea, she continued, "I do wonder at it taking you so long to come to the same conclusion I had drawn the minute that odious man entered Downton."

"Then you knew—"

"—That your son and my granddaughter were still in love?" She smiled thinly. "My dear woman, as hard a front as she puts on, I always knew that when Mary fell in love it would be in it, as they say, for the long haul. She's been mooning after him for years. And as for Matthew—" Violet's lip curled. "He has about as much talent for subtlety as _you_ do."

"I told you before the war I thought he was making a mistake," Isobel sighed, heavily. "I think he's finally realized it himself."

Violet quickly set down her cup and saucer, and Mrs. Crawley experienced the rare state of affairs that was Violet looking slightly ashamed.

"Well, not quite."

"…What did you do?"

"After we knew he would recover from his…injury." They exchanged a look. "I merely told him that Mary was still in love with him."

"While he was engaged to Lavinia?" Isobel wondered why she was so aghast—after all, this was _Violet_, and deep in her heart, she was not as offended by the idea as she knew she should be.

"I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear I had no apparent effect. Your son, bastion of honor that he is, insisted that to throw her over would be the height of _gaucherie_." She sniffed at the ridiculousness of the notion.

"But he never denied preferring Mary?"

"That was what told me he did."

Isobel sat for a moment, processing this new information. The Dowager Countess' meddling had been ill timed, of course, but knowing how much she cared about her son's future happiness, could she blame Violet for caring about Mary's?

In truth the two goals were and always had been one and the same.

"I don't think your interference had quite the effect you hoped it would."

"Why, what are—are you saying my interference had an effect?" She tried not to look smugly pleased. "Will wonders never cease?"

Tried and failed.

"I've just been to see Mary—I managed to get it out of her. Well, I say managed…she could hardly stop herself, once she'd started." She thought of that little dog, the one that Matthew had apparently promised to keep safe. It seemed like it was the only thing that had come through the War unscathed. "He did realize his mistake…three days before Lavinia died. She saw them kissing and from what Mary told me..."

"Oh, don't tell me—" She rolled her eyes, ever the long-suffering one. "He thinks she died for love of him?"

"He's been going around with a black cloud over his head—I just didn't realize what it was that was causing it. He blames himself for her death."

"And I always thought he was a sensible sort," She quirked one head, curiously. "Was his father prone to this sort of display of middle-class martyrdom as well?"

Even a mother's love couldn't blind her to the point.

"Reginald was very stubborn, too, if that's what you're asking," Isobel

Violet thought for a moment, before rapping her cane upon the floor with gusto.

"Well, that's it then—if they haven't got over each other after all this time, it's not likely they ever will. They must be forced to see reason."

An ally—she had it, now. It was the beginning of an army, a siege, but for now, Violet alone would be enough. Facing the problem would be the next step. She thought of how they dealt with ailments in the medical world. It was a matter of examining the symptoms and linking them to a root cause.

"There's still Sir Richard to consider," the other woman pointed out.

"Yes, of course…he'll have to be disposed of, obviously. That will be the biggest hurdle."

"There's something else—what Mary said, it made me wonder if she might not be in trouble."

"With Sir Richard?" Violet tutted at her simpleness in asking the question. "Of course it's with Sir Richard. Why else would she marry him? She certainly doesn't love him, that much is obvious."

"And we need feel no guilt for attempting to end the engagement."

"No indeed—not that I would have, at any rate. It's a question of finding the right opening."

"Oh, don't worry," answered Isobel, grimly, raising one of her delicate teacup in salute. "I'm good at that."

"As am I."

**Day 2. Thanks for all the support, guys—and yes, of course it's Violet. Who else stans Mary and Matthew enough to take the whole family down with her ship? Possibly Carson. Next up…Matthew Crawley. Because really, how long could Isobel keep her mouth shut?**


	3. Isobel Tells Matthew

"How was your day today?" She asked later, over tea. The person to whom she had spoken made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and did not look up from his paper.

He really had grown to be like his father. In the good ways, and the bad.

"Oh, you know…it was," was his illuminating response. When he forgot to offer the customary proffered repetition of the question, she volunteered it.

"I had a very interesting day."

"Did you?" A page turned.

"I went up to the Big House." No response. "To see Mary."

The paper stilled, and she could practically see his ears perk up.

"To chat with her about her wedding, I expect," he said, nonchalantly. The hand gripping the paper twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"We talked a little about that…though it's not a subject I think she enjoys, if truth be told."

Slowly, Matthew lowered the paper, face sporting a very familiar look of cautious fear.

"Mother…" There was warning in his voice. "What did you say to Mary?"

Sly artifice had never been her style, and though she was not privileged with the self-satisfaction that Violet's rank had afforded her, Isobel knew her own mind.

"I think what _you_ said to her is what matters, Matthew," she burst out, and his bright blue eyes widened. If there was any ambiguity in his mind about what she was referring to, his mother's next admonishment relieved him of it. "How _could _you have blamed her for Lavinia's death—what on earth could have _possessed you_?"

The Yorkshire Daily dropped to the ground.

"She told you?" her son choked out, jumping up from his chair like a scalded cat.

"I know you'll probably say it's none of my business, but I knew something had happened between you." Her son's expression darkened, and as he opened his mouth to speak again, she continued. "You might be content to sit back and ruin your life, but I will not, Matthew."

Every since he was a little boy Matthew had been taunted for being too attached to his mother. It was a dual product of his father dying when he was quite young, and Isobel's personality, which was naturally managerial—but every childhood "mummy's boy" jeer was worth it for the look of simultaneous complete love and complete exasperation she wore on her face now.

"What did she tell you?" he finally asked. It was difficult to tell whether he really wanted her to answer truthfully. "…Everything?"

"Not everything." Her voice softened at his forlorn expression. "But enough, I think."

He paced over to the window and stared out of it, hand gripping the ivory molding so hard his knuckles nearly turned white. In the light of the dying, pale sun Matthew's profile stood out in sharp relief, and Isobel thought how very tired and grave he looked—and sad, though it was a different sadness than the one he wore when Lavinia died.

Then he had been sad for himself, but now…he seemed sad for someone else, as well.

"And what do you think of your son now?" he said, voice faltering just slightly. Carefully Matthew's mother surveyed him before answering.

"That he's a young man who's been through a war, not to mention the complete upheaval of his life…and that he's, understandably, made some mistakes," She paused, carefully. "But that he's still in danger of making a bigger mistake still."

"It isn't my place to interfere." He closed his eyes in near physical pain. "And I don't deserve her, anyway."

"I think Mary's in a better position to determine that than you are—and she obviously doesn't find you wanting."

"She doesn't? Did she…" he hesitated, as if the fate of the world rested on her answer. "Did she say that?"

Isobel could scarcely believe him. He was moaning on about honor and duty when it was so obvious that he adored Mary, that her opinion of him meant more than anyone else's in the world.

"If you won't marry her yourself," she finally said, voice clipped and businesslike. "Then at least contrive to stop her from marrying Richard Carlisle."

"What right have I to?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Matthew—he's _blackmailing_ her."

"…What?" He turned from the window, quickly, and just as quickly shock turned to righteous anger. "What do you mean he's…how could he be—" Matthew seemed almost incapable of spitting out the vile words, of committing the thought of Mary being threatened to a tangible reality.

"Cousin Violet told me he's gotten hold of some story, some secret of Mary's, and she thinks that must be the reason why Mary's marrying him."

"What secret could Carlisle know—wait a moment," he stopped, having taken her words in a few seconds late. "What do you mean, 'Cousin Violet told you'? Have you been _discussing _this with Cousin Violet?"

She wondered how he would react to learning that in their long conversation about it the two women had started to call it the "Mary and Matthew situation."

"You've discussed it with her, why shouldn't I?" she replied, coolly.

"…She told you about that?" The cloud of irritation lifted a little, and he chuckled, in spite of himself, and walked back over to the discarded newspaper. Picking it up and setting it on the table seemed to help return some semblance of order to his world.

"Typically high-handed of her, of course…did she _really_ tell you to throw Lavinia over?" When he nodded in affirmation, Isobel turned her head in disbelief. "I suppose one has to admire her nerve—perverse as that feels."

"She also told me that Mary was—" Her son's voice softened at the remembrance. "That Mary was still in love with me. She asked me if, since I had loved her once…if I couldn't love her again."

Isobel was suddenly very keenly aware of the little stolen stuffed toy that was still in her pocket.

"The thing is…I knew I should've been angry with her for saying it, everything being it what it was, only…I wasn't. The only person I was angry at was myself for being so blind."

"Oh, Matthew," unconsciously, his mother found herself reaching to him—to her darling, lost little boy. "I wish you had come to me about this."

"What was I supposed to do, discuss it with you while Lavinia was in the next room, preparing tea and planning her wedding reception?" he snapped. After a moment of awkward silence, he continued, apologetic earnestness creeping into his voice. "What would you have told me to do, if I had?"

"I would have told you to follow your heart," she noticed how he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Which, I gather from your expression, you would not have found particularly helpful."

"I feel like such a fool, mother."

"There's still time to set things right. You mustn't give up hope," Forlornly, he returned to pensively brooding, now in his favorite wicker chair. He clearly doubted her sentiments, and so she thought very carefully about what to say next, for she knew it would be important to bolster his spirits.

Feeling suddenly inspired, Isobel reached into her pocket and pulled out the lucky charm. Though his ear was bent and a piece of her coat pocket's lining clung to him, he was fine—still as alive and well as a children's bauble had any right to be. Many emotions flittered across Matthew's face—recognition, guilt, fondness, shame, and she slowly lifted her arm and held it out to him.

"Give it back to her."

The determination, the _drive_ which had defined his life and had been so horribly absent from him for the last few months flooded back into her son as he took the dog from her—almost as if it were giving him strength. His bright blue eyes narrowed with purpose and Isobel knew that there would absolutely be no turning back from this point on.

_Oh, well done, my boy. _

She was very glad she had ignored Violet's advice to not let Matthew take things into his own hands.

**Writing and editing this quickly is a really fun challenge—I think I'm actually still on track with my schedule. Matthew and Isobel give me the fuzzy feels—despite her my beloved smother habits, she does love him as only a mother could. Thanks again for all the support and comments—only five more days (ish.) Can you guess who's next on the list of meddlers to tell? **


	4. Matthew Tells Robert

The circle of people deeply invested in the potential union of Lady Mary, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and Matthew Crawley, country solicitor, was as some believe the universe to be: limitless and yet always expanding. For the two parties most intimately involved this had always been a source of at best annoyance, and at worst heartbreak.

Matthew had no idea how Mary would react if she found out that he was planning on voicing his fears to her father—a range of colorful and fetching emotions came to mind. But he knew he would not, _could_ not let her fall on her sword for the family at the risk of endangering her own happiness.

Isobel was right when she said that intercession was, in this case, very necessary. And they were going up to Downton for a quiet family dinner anyway.

During their customary after dinner port, Robert even brought the subject up without prompting.

"I'm worried about Mary," the older man sighed, a tendril of cigar smoke lingering wistfully over his head.

"So am I," Matthew replied, not bothering to disguise his eagerness at the subject. "…I trust it's for the same reason?"

"Carlisle?"

He nodded.

"I think…that is, I have a feeling that Mary might be marrying him…under duress."

"What other reason would any woman have for marrying him?" her father joked, bleakly taking another sip from the nectar of the rich and laughing at his own sad observation. When Matthew remained grave and serious, so too did he become.

"You don't mean to say that Carlisle is _actually_ threatening her." Robert said, as the gravity of the accusation sunk in. It was clear the idea was not totally outlandish in his mind, never the less, to hear it voiced by _Matthew_ lent it actual credence. "Have you any proof?"

"Not yet…I wanted to confront Mary about it, but…well," He paused, pointedly. "You know how she can be."

"All too well," the older man replied, dryly, and the two exchanged a look of understanding. Matthew felt a load off his shoulders, voicing his fears to Robert, because he simply understood. "Somehow, without any effort on my part, I've managed to raise the most contrary woman in the history of the British Empire."

Matthew laughed fondly, knowing that Robert very well could be right in his estimation—but it didn't matter, because she was _Mary_, and she wouldn't be who she was without that ridiculous streak of fire and passion and the need to do exactly what she was told not to.

Mary's father smiled, as if he knew exactly what Matthew was thinking about and was very glad of it. In truth, he had never given up the hope that…but that would keep. Better to face what needed to be faced now than worry about _that._

"I knew she couldn't really like him," he continued, more seriously, and the man that he had come to think of as a son felt petty for agreeing as he did. "First Bates, now Mary…is there no end to my blindness?" he shook his head in self-disgust. "Cora mentioned something about Mary being in Richard's debt months ago—I should have pressed her harder."

"Cousin Cora knows about this?"

"I think she must." He set down his glass of brandy as Matthew marveled at the reach of this secret that had apparently been following Mary around for years. "I'm more curious what _you_ know—and what."

"I don't know the nature of what Carlisle is holding over Mary's head," his fist tightened at the thought. "But I…I have noticed how unhappy she is with him. She tries to hide it, but even Mary's talents for subterfuge have their limits." Not _even she could hide what she was thinking all the time. _"It's really my mother, though."

Robert looked surprised.

"What does Isobel know?"

He hesitated.

"She had a chat with Mary and…she's sure that she feels an obligation to go through with it. She's certain, in fact."

What he neglected to mention—or, perhaps, his mother had failed to sufficiently impart—was that she had told him all this in the strictest of confidence. The Richard state of affairs was obviously precarious, and in order to extract Mary from it—a reality everyone desired—discretion and delicacy would be required.

Unfortunately, prudence and latter-day chivalry were at war within him. Knowing that Robert would do anything to protect Marry once he knew she was marrying under duress had made confessing too tempting. He knew he ought to be careful, but the prospect of taking his, _their_ destiny into his own hands when he had felt so powerless for so long…

Matthew told himself that he was doing this all for strictly unselfish reasons, but such a lie was too flimsy, even to tell oneself.

In the drawing room, another equally urgent conversation was going on over the lighter discussions of the well bred females of the house.

"I know you don't agree with me, but I really felt that it's for the best." Cousin Violet barely attempted to conceal her eye roll. "I much prefer being straightforward about these sort of things—and not talking has always been their problem, anyway."

"I have _no doubt_ you believe what you've done is for the best," said the Dowager Countess, waving one hand in a half-hearted but conciliatory gesture. "I'm only warning you that you've eliminated any chance we might've had at disposing of Richard neatly."

"Why, what on earth do you mean?"

"Matthew and Robert, of course!" A blank stare was all she received. "In the dining room—together. Alone."

Isobel had a sinking feeling she was beginning to understand Violet perfectly.

"Ah." She bit her lip. "Well, there's always a chance he won't say anything to Cousin Robert."

"Whenever men are in a room together, they convince each other that whatever needs to be done, they can do it best." Across the room, Mary was chatting languidly with her mother and sister, looking less on edge than she had been the last few weeks. _All good things too must come to an end. _"I'm convinced that more wars have been started over after-dinner brandy and cigars than because of continental dukes being shot."

"But you do trust Matthew to do the right thing," the other woman replied, tersely, not pleased at the inference that her only son's actions could be compared to the assassination of Franz Ferdinand.

"Of course I do! That's exactly what worries me."

"I know my son better than you do—you can hardly argue with that."

Violet rapped her cane against the floor.

"My dear woman, I know _my_ son better than you do, and if Matthew tells him he thinks Mary is being cajoled into marrying Sir Richard Carlisle, there will be a scene to rival the end of _King Lear._"

"But why wouldn't he keep it low to the ground, at first?" her ally pointed out, logically. "It's in his best interest to come to a sensible solution—"

"Remember Sybil?" Isobel had a sudden, slightly horrific flashback to Robert yelling at the young man who was now his son-in-law—something about seducing his daughter behind the chauffeur's cottage or some such equally dramatic turn of phrase. "And we must bear in mind that Robert _liked_ Branson. He can barely stand to be in the same in the room as Sir Richard—"

"Discussing my fiancée, Granny?"

Violet Crawley was rarely caught off guard, but her granddaughter (and protégé) sidling up to her like a panther in the night merited a little surprise, even from her.

"I trust you're only saying nice things."

"Don't I always?" Mary shared a secret smile with her grandmother. "Mary, whatever happens tonight…I want you to know that it was none of my doing."

"What?"

At that moment Robert and Matthew entered the drawing room, and Mary's grandmother recognized the look of honor-fueled righteous indignation that both men were barely bothering to conceal. When Matthew stole a secret glance at her granddaughter, he looked like a cross between a latter-day Sir Galahad and a lovelorn poet.

"Oh, Lord help us, Robert's created another one."

**Only four more days people. FOUR MORE DAYS. Next chapter is the big one, ha. Be prepared for borderline OOC cathartic confrontations in front of friends and family members. Because years of English landed gentry fueled repression can only take you so far before you just LET IT ALL OUT.**


	5. Mary Tells Everyone Off

Though Robert and Matthew had both agreed to take the "wait and see" approach, when they reentered the drawing room it didn't take long for the subject of Sir Richard Carlisle to come up quite naturally—and in regards to his impending visit to finalize the wedding. Mary was discussing it with her grandmother and Isobel, who both were strangely and uncharacteristically subdued.

"I've told him to come up Saturday, but it seems he finished business early and he wants to take the train late Friday. I know Mrs. Hughes hates his little drop-ins," Mary turned to her father, who was standing by the fireplace with Matthew and asked, drolly, "What do you think, Papa—should I put him off for the good of the family peace?"

Rather than smiling back and returning the witticism, her father said what was undoubtedly the first thing that came to mind.

"_I_ wonder if he should be coming up at all."

Though the remark was made lightly, no one could ignore the implication, least of all Mary, who was staring at her father as if she'd never seen him before. A sudden, awkward hush settled over the room.

"I know you're not overly fond of Richard," she said, staring coolly up at Robert, who was becoming increasingly incensed at her blasé tone. "But you usually pretend not to dislike him for my sake."

"That was before I learned he was bullying my daughter into marrying him."

Not even the light clattering of crystal could be heard in that moment. Everyone in the room—Isobel, Cora, Edith, Violet—even _Carson,_ who had trained himself for over 30 years not to bat an eyelash at something a member of the family said—stopped what they were doing.

"He certainly likes things his own way, Papa—but then," Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "So do I. I would hardly call that bullying."

"For once in your life don't be flippant, Mary," Robert snapped, and at this surprising holding of ground his eldest daughter's guarded expression cracked. "Look me in the eye in front of your family and tell me that man isn't blackmailing you."

To her credit, the Earl of Grantham's daughter did not fall to pieces at this extraordinary pronouncement. With an unusual display of control, even for her, Mary's eyes instead traveled over every face in the room—lingering on Edith, Matthew noticed, before sliding past him and to her father again.

"Who told you?" she spoke, at last, with an almost unnerving calm. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, as Mary evidently did as well, for at that moment her eyes fixed on an unlikely candidate—her mother. "Was it Mama?"

"Though there's little doubt your mother knows the particulars—" His own piercing gaze echoed his daughter's. "She did not. And whoever it was that informed me hardly matters. What I want to know is when this happened."

She said nothing for a moment, as if pondering whether to deny the allegation entirely. When she did speak, it was seriously and lacking emotion.

"It was over a year ago—when," Her eyes darted to and away from Matthew. "When Lavinia came back. And he didn't threaten me. Not exactly. He only said that I was not to cross him." She fiddled with her necklace, something she only did when she was nervous. "Hard as it is to believe, he seemed to think he was in danger of being jilted."

"And you didn't think to tell me this? You didn't think that I might have some objection to my daughter marrying such an unprincipled and upstart coward?"

"I suppose I didn't think it was any of your business either way," she replied, archly, as she rose from her chair to meet his anger. "Really, Papa, if Sybil wasn't swayed by you in choosing a husband, does it seem likely I would be?"

"As headstrong and foolish as your sister is, no one could deny that she married for love. If I thought you loved Richard Carlisle—"

"What does love have to do with it?" There was steel in her now, and all of the control she had mustered seemed to be giving her inhuman nerve. "What has love _ever_ had to do with my marriage in your mind? You were quite content to marry me off to Patrick when he was the heir, because it was—what did you say, then? It was a 'comfortable and convenient' arrangement for all. No sooner was he dead then you had invited Matthew to live here, with the at least partial object of repeating the whole tired business." Once she had begun there didn't seem to be any stopping her—nor him.

She and Robert were perhaps more alike than anyone in their family, and unbridled stubbornness was undoubtedly a Crawley trait.

"I invited Matthew here to teach him about running the estate!"

Matthew desperately tried to avoid looking at either of them, but instead found himself locking eyes with Cousin Violet whose expression vacillated between sympathetic and grave.

"And to see if he might take one of us—preferably me, so that I might be out of the way of your plans," Her head turned a fraction of an inch to the left. "The best part of it was that you _knew_, didn't you?"

For the first time since this painful and infamous conversation had begun, she seemed to realize _he_ was in the room, that he was hearing every word pouring, unguarded, out of her lips.

"Of course you did, what was the first thing I ever heard you say? 'They're going to push one of the daughters at me'…you were as set against the idea of it as I was."

Matthew said nothing—what could he say? He could hardly argue the point with her. Without thinking about it, he stepped closer to her father, as if in masculine solidarity.

Mary could not help but see this allied front before her.

"It was you, Matthew." She did not phrase it as a question. There was a dawning realization in her eyes, and his mouth hung open—he was willing himself to think of something, to deny it, to explain it, but he could not stop marveling at the growing fire that those brown eyes betrayed. "You told him."

"…I did." He would've given anything to shrink into the wall at that moment.

"I won't bother asking you what proof you have, because I know you haven't a shred. But on what grounds—" A slight tremor in her voice betrayed her fury. "What _possible_ right have you to interfere in my marriage?"

He felt all eyes in the room on him instantly.

"I know what it looks like—what you must think of me—"

"But they don't," she replied, quietly. "They didn't hear what you said to me at Lavinia's funeral."

"I didn't…" He closed his eyes, incapable of looking at her. "It's just that…I can't bear to see you unhappy."

"Can't you?" A short, hard laugh escaped her, like the sound of a door snapping shut. "You've hurt me more times than Sir Richard ever has."

"This isn't about you and me—" he cried, knowing instantly that it was not only categorically untrue but also the absolute worst thing to say to her in that moment. If he had bothered to look over at Robert, Cora, or Violet, he would've seen that they all were in complete agreement with his sentiments.

"Oh, please. It's _alway_s about you and me—since the first day you entered this house that's what it's been."

"Matthew is only concerned about your well-being, Mary!" Robert said, trying to head her off, but he could not stop his daughter anymore than he could divert a river.

"Oh, take his side, Papa," she hissed, and if she had one of Richard's famous cocktails in her hand she undoubtedly would have knocked it back. "You always do."

"What did you say to her at Lavinia's funeral?" interjected Violet, rather sanguinely, all things considered. She had an adaptable spirit by nature and was quite ready to roll with the punches. In fact, in all honesty, she was rather enjoying herself.

"Yes, why don't you tell them, Matthew," said Mary, coldly, having retreated to one of the impressive, high-backed chairs she favored and gripping the arms of the chair as if she were physically restraining herself from slapping someone.

"It was wrong of me to blame you for her death," he admitted, to the family's morbid shock. "It was said in grief and I'm…sorry for it. The fault was entirely my own."

"It wasn't either of our faults," she shot up in her chair, righteous anger alight again. "And I wish for God's sake you'd stop acting as if it was. Why do you insist on—on _blaming _yourself?" Tenderness and caring mingled with the anger in her voice.

"You can't say you don't regret what we did."

"What did they do?" Edith asked her grandmother, in an undertone.

"Later," Violet muttered, raising a hand to silence her. "This next part is critical."

"Why should I regret? It was the more honest than you've been since the War started. Ever since you came back—" Mary raised one hand, grandly gesturing across the room at them all. "Everyone from Carson to Granny has been telling me I ought to try to get you back." Of the two, only the butler had the good sense to look embarrassed. She plowed on, barely stopping for breath. "I don't know how many times I told every person in this room that it was over between us, truly, that you loved Lavinia, that we were friends again, that I had moved on. I tried to let you go, I was happy for you both—I thought that was what you _wanted_!"

"I was what I—what I wanted was for you to be honest with me about how you felt!" he burst out, knowing how absurd and unfair he was being but not caring because she was the most infuriating woman on the planet and if he had only known—

"Oh, don't you _dare_ lecture me about constancy, Matthew Crawley," she said, waves of fury rolling off her. "You don't know the meaning of the word."

He had never seen her so incensed—and what was worse were the angry tears swimming to the surface in her expressive eyes. Four years of repressed fears and resentment and hurt were bursting out of them both, unrestrained. Matthew realized with faint horror that every bottled-up barrier was tumbling down in a screaming fit in front of all their closest relations.

They were a mess. No wonder everyone was so bloody obsessed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, faintly feeling that he had lost the plot.

"Well, you were going to marry Lavinia in the end anyway, weren't you?" She choked it out, and he bit back the urge to run and comfort her. "Even after what happened."

"She broke it off before she died. You know she wanted us to be together." He had long since accepted the fact that Lavinia would've never had him, had she lived. "She knew I had feelings for you, and doubted you'd marry Carlisle—"

"Lavinia was wrong about that, at least." Mary stood again, determined. "I am marrying Richard Carlisle, and nothing you say or do can stop me."

"Why, Mary?" She turned to head off an attack from her father's quarter, but was surprised to see only the heartbreak of a wounded loved one in his face. "Why are you marrying him? You don't love him, darling. Everyone can see that." Calmly, he walked over to her and took her hand. "Please tell me. Whatever it is, it's not worth you throwing your life away."

The final barrier to truth was to be crossed this night. Mary reveled in that last moment of peace, of comfortable dishonesty, before beginning what would _truly_, more than anything, spell the end.

"If I don't marry him he will publish in his papers a story that will destroy this family." Though it obviously pained her to speak, she plowed on, determined to finish it—finish it all. Something had begun. "He will tell all of London—nay, everyone in England, will read about how your daughter, Lady Mary Crawley, took a—took a lover to her bed, a Mr. Kemal Pamuk, a diplomat from the Turkish embassy who promptly—_died_ in it."

No one in the room spoke.

"Not knowing what to do, she woke her maid Anna and her mother, your wife, Lady Grantham and the three of them agreed to—they carried the body from her room to the bachelor's corridor." Her gaze held Edith's very briefly again. "Somehow or another the story was spread around, and Bates' first wife got hold of it and tried to blackmail him. I told Richard Carlisle so that he could help me silence her, which he did. He knows my secret now, though, and will only keep it provided I marry him." Mary sounded very tired. "And that, you see, is the whole story."

It was at least as much as she had the strength to say at that moment.

She looked at the two most important men in her life, straight in the eye, expecting to see something—anything—dismay, hurt, disgust, pity—but instead finding nothing but blank, dull shock.

How disappointing. But then, she had grown used to that.

"Forgive me," she finally, coldly, pronounced to the room _en large_. "But I don't much feel like company anymore. I apologize for spoiling everyone's evening—Carson, when you have a minute, could you—" Her voice hitched. "Could you send Anna up to my room, please?"

Carson snapped out of his own shock with the dignity and solemnity that nearly 35 years in his station had afforded him.

"Of course, my lady."

And with that, she left them all, head held high, but heart heavy.

**For Fatima, who needs it most. **

**This was kind of emotionally draining to write, but also cathartic. It was also sort of the reason I started writing this fic in the first place.**


	6. Carson Tells Matthew and Lies to Anna

It had been a long night for Charles Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey, and he was a man who had suffered many a long night in service. He had suffered the indignity of having his past as half of a mediocre music hall double-act exposed to his employer. He had suffered some sort of embarrassing heart malfunction (which he commonly referred to in company as "getting flustered") at the dinner table. He had even suffered working beside or over Thomas Barrow for nearly a decade of his life.

This night, though—this night might've been the worst.

As he walked through the house, doing his nightly inspection of each and every room of the house, his mind returned to the unfortunate drawing room, home to, just a few short hours before, a melodrama of the highest and least dignified order. It had actually gotten worse when Lady Mary left the room, and after the painful horrors of that scene, that was a near impossible feat.

First there was Lord Grantham—who, apart from being utterly shocked by his daughter's account, was surprised to find that he and Mr. Crawley was apparently the only people in the room who were not familiar with at least some variation on it. He then demanded to know where Bates' wife had heard it with enough corroboration to think it possible to blackmail her husband. Lady Edith had started sobbing hysterically after minimal grilling, through her tears admitting that she had written to the Turkish Embassy when she was cross with her sister, which of course set off Lord Grantham again.

The evening reached fever pitch when the Dowager Countess "accidentally" let it slip that this story was the reason Lady Mary had hesitated accepting Mr. Crawley's proposal of marriage in 1914.

That was what brought the young heir to the house out of the catatonic stupor he'd been in ever since Lady Mary left the room, in fact.

"Carson, is that you?"

The butler did not jump (you did not get to be butler of one of the finest houses in all Yorkshire by jumping), but he _was_ surprised to see selfsame Mr. Crawley sitting in the library, in the very chair by the fire that was so often the sanctuary of the house's owner.

"Mr. Crawley—" He recovered himself admirably. "I'm sorry, sir. I was not expecting anyone to be in here. I thought you had left with Mrs. Crawley some time ago."

"No, she—went on home ahead of me."

"Do you wish for me to call for the car?"

"I wouldn't want to trouble the chauffeur at this hour. I'll walk." Matthew ran one hand nervously through his hair. "I know it's very late, I ought to have left hours ago. You must feel very put out."

The stared at each other, then, _mano-a-butler_, and for a moment they were not a servant and an heir, but instead just two men who cared deeply for the same woman.

"If any man should have the right to use this house as he sees fits," Carson said, his hard shell virtually impenetrable. "I believe the honor should lie with the man who will own it one day."

"It's nice of you to say, Carson, but I don't feel particularly deserving this evening." He massaged his temples wearily. "Please, go about your business—pay no attention to me."

Silently, Carson walked the familiar path through the library that he walked every evening. He straightened up the cushions, and looked for any stray books that might need to be put back into their rightful places. On the table next to Matthew sat a lengthy-looking historical tome that he was clearly not reading, but that his hand hovered over protectively for lack of anything better to do.

Or perhaps he just didn't want to be left alone.

The butler coughed discreetly.

"Will you be needing this, sir, or may I—"

"Did you really say that to Mary, Carson?"

If Carson understood what he meant, he did not let on.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Did you tell Mary she should try to—get me back?" He had not stopped staring into the fire. "Only I couldn't help noticing—that was what she said, you know." He was very far away. "It was one of…many things she said."

He may have been an old and stodgy fool (he knew it was what Thomas called him behind broom closets and in the back courtyard), but looking at the handsome, young, and utterly morose man before him, he remembered how difficult that age could be and feel.

"With all due respect, Mr. Crawley I prefer to use discretion with regards to my conversations with members of the family."

He looked up from the fire at last, a self-deprecating smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, Carson, I'd forgotten that butlers have an unwritten code about that sort of thing," Matthew picked up the fire poker and idly poked one of the dying logs. "Loyalty to the house's family, and all that. It wasn't fair of _me_ to ask you."

"Loyalty isn't like an estate or a title, sir." He paused, significantly. "It can be earned as well as inherited."

Matthew nodded in understanding, and the flame's light danced in agreement on the wall.

"Mary earned yours. I can't imagine someone not wanting to be loyal to her…" he trailed off, a sad, fond look in the pale eyes, glassy with the reflection of waning fire. "I never blamed her for resenting me. If I were in her position—it's always been terribly unfair to Mary. I wish I could make it up to her. I wish I could give her the money _and_ the title."

"…There's still one way you could, sir," the older servant pointed out, gently.

"I'm not sure she'd want to get it that way at this point." He sighed and laughed.

"Am I that big a fool, Carson? Was it so obvious to everyone else?"

"Sir, if I may overstep the bounds of propriety for a moment—"

"If 'overstep the bounds of propriety' means you're going to tell me I've been a fool," he snapped, wondering if Robert paid Mr. Carson to be nice to him and wishing that he didn't. "Then _yes_, I bloody well want you to—"

"No, sir, it's not that," Carson briskly cut off Matthew's moody ranting before it could escalate into something approaching Lady Mary's earlier display. "It's about the first thing you said. About what Lady Mary may or may not want."

"…Yes?"

"Sir, I've known Lady Mary since she was a very small girl—since she was born, in fact. I've watched her grow up, and I've seen how she guards herself. It's not an easy world for a woman of her spirit, and she's always been very careful to protect herself." Matthew looked up at Carson so earnestly that the older man found himself feeling very fond—he was a very difficult young man to hate, at any rate. "But I've never once seen her lose her temper with any man in public." Another significant look. "If that's worth anything to you."

"…I suppose it is," he replied, understandingly, and he smirked at Carson. "I can imagine how Mary would react to me saying that. You won't tell her, will you, Carson?"

"Discretion is the better part of valor." He gave a small bow. "I'll leave you now, Mr. Crawley."

"Of course, Carson—I didn't mean to keep you," he rose, apologetically. "I really should leave myself, shouldn't I?" Matthew was half talking to himself, and half to Carson, half cursing his awkwardness and half regretting leaving the house without…

"By all means, sir, stay. There is a decanter of brandy in his lordship's cabinet," he pointed to it, adjacent to the desk. "For occasions such as these."

Matthew sat back down again.

"Of course. Goodnight, Carson…and thank you."

The old and—in his own estimation, foolish and sentimental—man turned, just as he had gotten to the door.

"Sir—about the second thing you asked me."

Matthew looked up.

"Yes?"

"When it comes to matters of the heart…I think a great many people are fools."

As good as he felt about where he'd steered the young man (toward Lady Mary, his true north), Carson was troubled when he walked back downstairs. He was so deeply engrossed in his thoughts, in fact, that he barely noticed Anna until he ran headlong into her on the stairs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson!" she apologized, obviously lost in her own thoughts. "I didn't see you."

"Excuse me, Anna—what are you still doing up at this hour?"

"I was just about to go up to Lady Mary's room, only she asked me to go fetch her book, something Greek or Roman I expect—" _A flash in his mind—a history, sitting on the end table, and an engraved red bookmark—Lady Mary's favorite color_. "Have you just come from the library? Did you happen to see it?"

"…There weren't any books out, none at all. If Lady Mary hasn't taken it up herself, I expect it's been put back by Lord Grantham—" Inwardly he winced at the falsehood, but he thought of how much the Dowager Countess would approve of him and it lifted a petty lie to an act of nobility in his mind. "She'll have to come down and get it herself, if she really wants it."

**Only two more sleeps….only two more sleeps…this is very difficult, isn't it? Well, only one more chapter. The _denouement_! Thank you for all the fabulous support. This was a fun one to write, because I think there's a very interesting dynamic between Matthew and Carson. It sort of makes me want more interaction between them in series 3. **


	7. Matthew and Mary Tell Each Other

If only God granted one the ability to erase a single day of their life. The universe would be so much more just if a person could awaken from a dreamless sleep (as was the fashion in fairy tales) and find that the previous twenty-four hours were a page yet to be written—or better still, one that could be torn out and forgotten.

That was what she would like to do with today, this day of humiliating outbursts and long-buried secrets told. At least she still had the tattered remnants of her pride, but when she thought of the blank looks in her father and Matthew's eyes, it proved a meager consolation.

What _he _thought shouldn't matter. No, it didn't matter, not after everything.

It couldn't matter.

Of course, that was the problem with love. It made your brain think rather stupid things you didn't want it to.

Her head hurt to think of all the people who had disappointed her today. Even Anna, trusted, faithful, and, in all honesty, her best friend—even Anna had let her down. She had not brought up her book, had told her it was not to be found. A minor irk in a sea of more momentous disillusionments, but creeping down to the library to look for it still felt like a trial sent from Above to test her resolve.

When she walked into the library to find Matthew dozing by the fire, peaceful and so bloody handsome, with _her_ book open on his _lap_ she knew it was.

Mary approached him with caution, but the young woman (so much older after today) allowed herself the indulgence of looking at him freely, and she so she lingered above the young man, unable to look away. She should pull the book away quickly and run from the room, like pulling a bandage off a scabby knee, but as she tried to pull the book away, he tightened his grip on it.

"Am I dreaming?" he murmured sleepily, opening one eye.

"No, it's the real me, I'm afraid."

"You shouldn't assume I prefer the dream to reality, Mary." Matthew blinked awake and looked up at the clock above the mantle. "_Already_? I must've—" He then noticed what her still outstretched hand was reaching for. "Oh, I'm sorry—is this yours?"

"I came down to get it," she shivered, clad in only her nightgown and excruciatingly aware of it.

Matthew, hoping to make his own staring less obvious, turned his attention instead to the book that had roused her from bed.

"Plutarch's 'Lives'?" he read off the spine, bemusement obvious. "Seems a bit heavy for bedtime reading."

"Whenever I'm feeling miserable, I read it to remind myself at least I haven't been stabbed by a group of feckless Roman senators," she answered, wryly, and Matthew raised one amused eyebrow as he handed the history back to her.

"I always imagined you reading Bronte."

Mary smiled and rolled her eyes at him, and Matthew felt a surge of that familiar burning affection. She did not realize how dear she was to him when they shared a private joke, as they always had—she understood him as no one did or ever would.

"Forbidden passion in the wild Yorkshire moors is more Sybil's forte than mine."

"I didn't mean _Wuthering Heights_…I was thinking of Charlotte Bronte. Jane Eyre appeared serene to those who didn't know her," No longer light and playful, the air was thick with that tightly wound, crackling energy that always circled them. "But she couldn't hide the passion she felt, not in the end."

"Well, the man she loved had a wife moldering away in the attic," his adversary retorted, bitingly. "So perhaps she would have been well served hiding it better."

"What would her life have been, though?" He rose from the chair with great care, as if he were in the woods around Downton, trying not to startle a doe or fawn in the brush. "What is a life without affection or understanding…what is a life without love, Mary?"

Sighing softly, she looked into the fire and tucked a soft strand of chestnut hair behind one impossibly delicate ear, pondering the question.

"A life without pain, for a start."

It was a half-hearted attempt at best. No one for a second would think Mary Crawley believed the words she was saying.

"The trouble with you, Mary," He began to walk towards her. "Is that you're too strong. You're afraid of seeming weak, so you push away the people you love—" He was pained and pleading now—but so impossibly honest. "They would help you if you'd only let them."

A small, sad noise escaped her, and it was with a jolt of protectiveness that Matthew realized she was crying.

"Who…who would help a woman like me?"

"Nobody blames you," he soothed, gently, resisting for now the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and never let go. "Your father isn't angry with you. If anything he's hurt that you didn't trust he would love you, no matter what. He does, you know."

"And…" she hesitated. "…And you?"

"…I'm sorry I didn't say anything. It's not because I judge you—even if I felt that way, I'm not in a position to judge anyone. I just…" she held a breath again, in anticipation. "I just had no idea what you'd been through. Going through it all alone, Mary…God, you amaze me."

"You don't see a fallen woman when you look at me?"

"When I look at you—" He stepped even closer, into the fire's light, and it cast an almost ethereal glow over her face, over that impenetrable mask that was slipping for the world to see. "I see the strongest, bravest…the most wonderful person I think I've ever met."

Before he could even think, Matthew had raised one hand to brush away the tear on her cheek, delicately, as if it were a dewdrop on a rose.

"But you might try telling people how you feel more than once every eight years, Mary," She laughed with him at that, and his other arm rose to join the first, cupping her cheek. "Then it wouldn't all come out at once and in quite such an, er…explosive way."

She leaned into his touch, into the warmth of his body and his voice.

"That must've really shocked them all. When Patrick died," her voice hitched at the memory. "When he died I didn't shed a single tear. I was going to marry him—it was arranged for us, but he was still my—but I couldn't. Everyone—Edith and Papa most of all—thought I was so cold. I couldn't make myself cry, not for anything."

"Why was that, I wonder?" he asked, huskily, as his arms fell from her face down past her shoulders, to her waist, as if they had a mind of their own.

"I suppose it was because I didn't love him." She moved closer to him, some non-physical force pulling her towards him, despite the distrust and the misunderstandings and how incredibly _thick_ they could both be.

"…And why are you crying now, Mary?" Matthew was whispering, so close that he could see her tears as they fell to the floor.

"I suppose…" she choked, and he circled her with his arms, a protective band. "I suppose it's because I _do_ love you."

In the next second he was kissing her, and it was with all the longing and need of nearly eight years, he was running his hands through her wonderful hair (_it smelled like freesias and lilac and Mary)_, down her back, all over her. Faintly he heard the sound of a seven hundred-page book drop to the library floor, but it was a million miles away for all he cared. Who could ever say this woman was cold? She was like a holding a raw flame, through her thin nightgown she was all warmth and fire and goodness—she was more than that.

She was the light of his life.

They broke the kiss at last, but did not release her—still holding on to her glorious self as if his life depended on it.

"God, Mary—I love you so much." Another kiss—on her cheek, another, her neck, lower and lower. "Marry me, _please_."

She made some soft and essentially feminine sound and his heart rate shot through the roof again.

"I want to so badly, Matthew, you know that," He heard the first way and his heart leapt out of his chest, she loved him, she wanted him, she tasted so bloody _good_. "Only…"

Matthew ceased his ministrations (to a sigh of regret from her) at once.

"Only what?"

He should've seen it coming. Things were never _easy_ for them, were they?

"What about Richard?" Her joy turned to worry and he wanted to kiss it away, make it better, anything to stop her from looking so distraught. "What about the family name? If I jilt him this close to the wedding, he'll have all of our heads—"

"Do you love him?" Matthew interrupted, expression intent, eyes searching her face hungrily for an affirmation of what he knew could not be.

She glared, incredulous at the suggestion.

"Of course not! You know that I—"

"And do you love me?"

Pulling back, exasperated, she gave him a look that was equal parts scathing and annoyed.

"How many times are you going to make me say it before you believe me?" It was something a wife would say to her erstwhile husband. The intimate promise of the admonishment filled him up, like warm cider, and gave him the courage to speak words that he had known were true, somewhere deeply hidden in his heart, almost since the moment he had met her.

"And I love you," he declared, to the universe at large, and the phrase '_largess of the bourgeoisie_' floated through Mary's mind, spoken in Granny's voice. He might've been yelling it from the top of Kilimanjaro or to a hung jury in a crowded courtroom. "More than anything in the world, and you deserve to be happy. Even if you didn't give a fig for me, I would tell you not to marry him. Your happiness is all that matters, Mary." Embracing her again, he whispered into her hair, softly, "It's all that matters to _me_."

Oh, he was wonderful even when he was being ridiculous and noble.

"He's coming up on Friday," she whispered back, drinking in the faint smell of brandy and cleanness and whatever was essentially _Matthew_ that she could not seem to ever forget. "I'll have to break it off then, in person."

"I want to be there," he replied, too quickly and with a suspicious amount of eagerness.

"For what reason should I say you're there?" Mary replied, dryly, and reluctantly she extricated herself from his arms. "To lend moral support?"

"To make sure he doesn't start any trouble."

"The only thing that's going to ensure trouble is started is _you_ being there."

"I mean it, Mary. He threatened you before—"

"And you were the reason!"

"_What_?"

"He was the one who brought Lavinia back, after you were…after the injury. He was jealous of how much attention I was paying you, all of those walks we used to take." She smiled up at him, frustrated but loving. "He could see I had feelings for you, as well."

"Am I the only person on earth who didn't?"

He would never understand why he had been so blind to a fact that was common knowledge to her family, to both their fiancées, to her _butler_, for heaven's sake.

"You saw what you wanted to see, Matthew," she reassured him, wistfully, and squeezed his hand.

Ruefully pushing aside _that_ idiocy, the young solicitor from Manchester thought of all the other things he had to apologize to this woman for. His latest crime was the most obvious.

"I'm sorry that I went over you, that I went to your father with my suspicions—I should've respected that your life is your own."

"Don't apologize for it. As angry as I was this evening—I'm glad it's all out. It's a relief, really."

His mouth quirked in barely-concealed laughter when he thought of how different things had been this morning when he woke up. They had both been content to throw their lives away for a reason that, in the rustling stillness of the library where Mary and he stood as equals, was very far away.

"My mother's really the one to blame, you know." She was unfazed. "I heard you had a bit of a chat with her today."

"…I gathered that's how you knew. What did she tell you?"

"She told me enough," he said, echoing Isobel's earlier words.

The love of his life looked down at the floor, and just when Matthew thought she couldn't get any more darling, he caught sight of the embarrassed blush staining her cheek.

"Yes, well…she caught me at a weak moment—and she's a very good listener."

"The thing you've got to remember about mother," he raised her chin, gently. "Is that she's equally good at telling other people. I'm afraid your prospects for a mother-in-law are very grim, should you want to keep anything secret from me."

"I'm used to meddling, Matthew." She lifted his hand up to her cheek and smiled, adoration shining through like a beacon. How could he have doubted her feelings, how could he have doubted _her_—though he'd accused Lady Mary of being afraid, the man who loved her knew she was not alone on that score. "Isobel is _nothing_ compared to Granny, as much as I'm sure she'd like you to think she is."

"We may have to agree to disagree on that score, my dear." The final two words were a caress, a kiss and a prayer. "But if that's the sort of thing we're at cross purposes over from now on, I'll be very happy."

"Oh, _Matthew_." For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I'm so happy—I don't need anything else in the world, if I could only go on feeling like this."

"You might object to not being clothed, darling."

"You know what I mean," she chided, comfortably leaning into his dinner jacket, and he wanted to give her the world—or at least a gift in place of the ring he didn't possess, yet.

In lieu of a silver band, he slipped his own piece of Mary Crawley out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"I thought you might like having this…for luck." He'd grown very attached to it, in his way, but in the face of her delight he didn't mind relinquishing it. "Not that you'll need it, of course, now that you have me."

"I would kiss you if you didn't look so smug, Matthew Crawley."

After all, he didn't need a piece of her anymore.

He had her wholly, body and soul.

**Merry Christmas Eve! Or happy Christmas morning, as I expect it is by now in the UK, where the story stats page tells me most of the readers of this tale are. I took a bit more time with this chapter because I wanted to do it right. In before the glorious special, which is a good thing because I'm fairly certain that no matter the Mary and Matthew outcome, I'm going to collapse with emotional exhaustion. Thank you all for the wonderful feedback and support, and may you all have a blessed, peaceful, and joyous Christmas. God bless!**


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